


Best Given

by WriterChick



Series: Quite Alive [3]
Category: The Last Kingdom (TV)
Genre: F/M, Flirting, Inappropriate Behavior, Intentions, Jealousy, Power Dynamics, Slow Burn, Uncertainty, captive or companion?, courting, pursuing, strong female, travelling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2020-05-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:21:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24341965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WriterChick/pseuds/WriterChick
Summary: Sigtryggr's intentions toward Stiorra are revealed while they travel together.
Relationships: Sigtryggr Ivarsson/Stiorra
Series: Quite Alive [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1861171
Comments: 33
Kudos: 125





	Best Given

The road to Eorforwic was a long one. Fortunately, Stiorra had trekked over part of it before, so it was mostly familiar. Although, traveling with Sigtryggr and his men was nothing like traveling with Father and his. These battle-hardened pagans from Irland were just as confused about Sigtryggr’s plan for her as she was, and their quiet whispers on the matter did little to ease her mind. 

The company was long and a few men wide, taking up the whole road. Sigtryggr staggered his pace, riding at many different points in the line. Father liked to travel best in his little family of brothers, but when he rode with an army, he did the same. He told Stiorra it was to make sure that the men in the back weren’t bemoaning the men in the front, and that the men in the front weren’t growing too large for their breeches.

It seemed strange to her that men would find prestige in something as stupid as where one stood in a line--all going to the same destination, all trudging over the same muddy road. She would not pretend to understand men, least of all Sigtryggr. 

For as much time as he spent traveling throughout the line, he spent an equal amount riding alongside her. He asked her questions about everything from the land and the Saxons in it, to her family and her interests. He favored listening over talking and his easy smile would have her feel as if they were old friends.

He kept too close an eye on her, though, for them to be as friendly as appearances would have one believe. Yet, he bothered to ask about things that were useless to him--like whether she had preferred living in the country or in the city. For what purpose? Knowing that she stopped picking flowers after her mother passed--because she loathed to see them dry out and die before her eyes--taught him nothing about the king of Wessex or his sister the queen of Mercia.

They claimed peace, but neither knew much of it. Stiorra doubted they would wait two whole summers before invading Eorforwic. Sigtryggr had to know the same. They would allow no freedom for a heathen to thrive in a land they claimed rights to. Perhaps that was why he took her along, to ensure that when they called upon her Father to raid, he would not raise arms against the man who held his daughter.

Again, she was left wondering if she was his captive or his companion. The weary way in which his men watched her, made her think that perhaps no one knew. This uncertainty amongst them would not bode well for her on the road. She would be considered a hindrance at best and a threat at worse. The presence of many women was celebrated, whereas the presence of just one was a distraction. 

The only way for her to make this journey more tolerable was to win them over. Charm was not Stiorra’s strong suit, but she could hold her drink, and she had learned from Father’s brothers that men appreciate it when a woman--especially one as small as she--kept up with them drinking in the taverns. 

It had been their fourth night on the road when Stiorra rose from her seat by the fire and filled her cup to the brim for a fifth time.

Sigtryggr said nothing, not that she was expecting him to. Neither did his smile slip as his eyes followed her. She managed not to sway as she walked over to the barrel and back, though rather than sitting down smoothly, she plopped. Two of Sigtryggr’s men, Gunnar and Aric, chuckled at her lack of grace. For the most part, she could understand their words, though the order they put them in was strange and sometimes the ones they chose for the meaning they meant felt odd, but she attributed that to the fact that they had been in Irland before following Sigtryggr across the ocean. 

Ragnall--who she learned on the second day, was Sigtryggr’s brother--gave them both a nasty glare, which shut them up. His eyes softened as he tore his gaze from Gunnar and Aric to look at her. “Slow down,” he said to her alone. “You have nothing to prove.”

It was clear that the sentiment was there, but it wasn’t enough to sway her.

He was a counterfeit image of his brother, only their coloring the same. He had long blonde hair that he plaited back out of his face, with bits of gold shaped into knots decorating it. This was no doubt to show his riches, and his claim to superiority over his brother. The animal faces and patterns in his jewelry looked somewhat different from what she was used to seeing, leading her to believe that the Danes in Irland were not like the ones here. Unlike Sigtryggr’s light blue eyes, Ragnall’s shimmered as if they were made of a thousand tiny shards of ice, and although he grinned at her as Sigtryggr was prone to do, it was not in the same way. 

There was a sharpness to him that made her feel as though his kindness now would come at a price later. Stiorra did not trust him, and though she did not know him well enough to say, she had always trusted her gut.

As Ragnall leaned in closer to her, Stiorra looked through the flame, to where Sigtryggr sat. Though he held his amused expression, there was an edge in his look. She had heard some of the men talking of Irland, about how Ragnall had bullied his way over Sigtryggr and driven him from the land. There was no love lost between the brothers, so she was genuinely curious as to why Sigtryggr would allow him to join them--why Ragnall would want to. And why he was taking such an interest in her now. 

Stiorra took another big drink of ale to let Ragnall know that she didn't much care for him or his attempt at friendship. When she felt him watching her, she shrugged and smiled sheepishly. "It's good." 

Though Ragnall's expression had not changed, she was certain she heard a little huff. She took another gulp and tried to ignore him as she listened to Aric tell the tale of the time he was not aware the whore he purchased was his own cousin's wife. 

She shook her head, feeling much lighter. "I hope it did not cause too much strife between you." It wasn't as if he had taken the woman on purpose, knowing who she was. Surely, his cousin could forgive him. 

“Oh aye, there was strife.” Aric shrugged, his grin turned toothy and full of mischief. “But I never said he was my favorite cousin, so I have no regrets over the woman--or the price I paid for her.” 

The camp roared in laughter--everyone but Sigtryggr and his brother.

If it had been anyone else speaking, Stiorra would have figured that he meant the cost was more than just silver bits, but Aric was as deep as a mud puddle, so it was entirely possible that he was only speaking of currency. He was one of those men who thought emotions were a woman’s game. Good natured enough, but no man she could personally suffer for long.

If emotions were a game, Stiorra had certainly been played by them plenty. Sigtryggr's eyes moved to hers and whether he knew it or not, his cheek twitched, revealing a dimple. She had discovered that very same dimple on the day he executed Eardwulf. He told his men that it was for his treachery, but she wondered if it might have also been due to another reason--her. Sigtryggr had been even-tempered in the days they spent together alone in the old king’s room. That was, until he walked in on Eardwulf striking her. He did not take well to seeing her harmed and acted swiftly--and permanently, flashing her a grin before carting the man off to his death.

The very real possibility that he had killed a man for hurting her, somehow made him more handsome than he already was. She might have been able to ignore his good looks if his mind was sour, but he had proven to have both his wits and good humor. Trying not to think favorably of him was like trying not to breathe. 

It was not until their eighth night on the road that her inner most thoughts seeped into reality and changed everything she thought she knew. 

Since starting this journey, no matter where Stiorra laid her bedroll, the men set theirs far away. It was Sigtryggr’s doing--he issued the orders, and they followed. And where did he sleep? Rather than closer to the campfire, by his horse, or any of the other choice places in camp, he was always lying somewhere between her and the company they kept. 

She knew it was to ensure they didn’t creep past him and dishonor her, as men on long travels could get a mind to do. Their touch would only lessen her value--whatever it was to him. At night, when she closed her eyes and chased dreams, she liked to pretend that his protectiveness was for more than just profit. 

When she woke on that particular night, it was still dark. The fire had died down to embers, leaving only her blanket to warm her. She hugged herself close, trying to better brace against the cold, but after seeing her own breath, she knew it was not enough. Slowly, she sat up and glanced around. 

Sigtryggr lay only a few yards away. He was on his side, his blanket up to his shoulder, his long hair draped over his face, obstructing it from view. Though she couldn’t see his eyes, she knew they were closed because she had stared into them enough to recognize the feeling of them on her.

Stiorra rose to her feet, careful not to make a sound. Neither Sigtryggr, nor his men beyond him, stirred. Turning on her heel, she stepped gently on her toes to lessen the crunch of dead leaves and twigs. They kept their horses just off through the trees, away from camp. Stiorra smiled to herself as she walked--appreciating that he was smart enough not to assume a safe and easy journey simply because a king and queen gave their word. 

“Leaving us so soon?”

Stiorra startled at the sound of Sigtryggr’s voice. She had been so lost in thought, her gaze focused on the ground, that she had not heard him approach. “What?” She gasped, clutching her heart. One of the horses whinnied and only then did she realize where she was and how it must have appeared. "Oh, no. No, I wasn’t."

He crossed his arms over his chest, the corners of his mouth lifting. "And yet, I find you here. With the horses." He raised a hand to gesture at the sky. "In the dead of night, while everyone sleeps."

Stiorra pursed her lips at the accusation. She knew how it looked, but she had already denied it. Had her word not been enough? Not if she was a hostage. In fact, there was no way he could have gotten there so fast unless he had been keeping his eye on her the whole time. 

" _ You _ weren't sleeping." Now it was she that crossed her arms over her chest, all of her fantasies betrayed. "You've been watching me." 

His smile widened. "How could I not?" 

He admitted to watching her, and it was not out of whatever stupid romantic interest she dreamed about, but because she was Uhtred the Dane Slayer's daughter. She was little more to him than a prisoner--leverage over the Saxons--who entertained with conversation during the travel. 

"I have not lost my sight," he said, interrupting her thoughts. 

Had he just complimented her? Surely not, since she was his hostage. Her gaze lifted to his, trying to decipher his meaning. His eyes were the calm cobalt of a deep lake, light ripples promising so much more beneath the surface. Perhaps it was the night sky, darkening them, or perhaps they had fled from the shadow of his pupils as they had a tendency to do whenever their eyes met. She could not be sure about anything when it came to him. 

Feeling the need to fill the silence, she countered, “Then use your eyes to see how cold I have become.” She exhaled hard to show him the cloud of her breath. “I was getting another blanket off my horse.”

He remained unmoving, his grin never leaving his face, and his eyes never blinking. It was obvious that he was sizing her up, determining her honesty. 

“Because I was cold,” she added, repeating herself, as if the sound of her own voice would snap him out of such scrutiny. 

It did not. The man did not move a muscle as he stared at her, still smiling--always smiling. It was as if he alone was in on some cosmic joke that no one else was privy to. What was so damned funny? 

Did he think she was lying? As if she would bother over something so stupid.

“Do you not believe me?” Her voice raised, her cheeks flushing. She had felt close to freezing moments ago, and yet at his amusement, the heat of her anger could rival the campfire’s. “Here,” she hissed, shoving her sleeve up to her elbow, revealing the goosebumps that spread over her forearm. “See? I do not lie. I was not leaving.”

Sigtryggr’s gaze flicked to her arm, his smile fading. Apparently, he didn’t appreciate being wrong. Stiorra smirked to herself that this would not be the only time she ventured to prove the man incorrect. Especially since he had just obliterated any hope that he might have been looking upon her as fondly as she had been looking upon him. 

“Come,” he said, walking past her. There was a seriousness to his tone that was rare, causing her to turn and follow before she could think to respond. He always seemed in such good humor, seeing him this way was disconcerting. 

She had only just gathered the courage to question him when she noticed that they were already back at camp. The walk had seemed so much longer when it had been done in secret. The way back, however, was spent staring at Sigtryggr’s back and the long blond hair that flowed down it. That, and trying to figure out his sudden shift in mood. 

He did not go to his bed roll, but instead stood above hers. "Come," he said again, before lowering himself down to the ground. "I will keep you warm."

And she believed that he most certainly could. He could melt her from twenty paces away with a look alone. Laying with Sigtryggr was probably akin to having hot stones placed on one's bed. She could imagine even on a night as cold as this, having to peel a layer of clothing off in order to survive his heat--or rather succumb to it. 

"Likely," she blurted.

Only then did he give her his usual smirk before lifting the blanket for her to climb in. “Lady?" 

"Do I look like a lady?" Even as she asked the question, she was walking over. The energy between them was too great to resist and perhaps he was counting on that. It was doubtful that he would have offered to warm a hostage, though it was proving to be the surest way to keep her compliant.

In her life, Stiorra had spent many nights on the road, huddled against others for warmth. This was different, however. In all the times that she had shared a blanket with another, it had never felt like this before. Sigtryggr was a wall of muscle at her back, warm and pressing against her with each breath. While she had mostly shared sleep with children, there were times--in particularly frigid weather--that she had slept against the men in her father's company. They too were made of muscles and brawn, but somehow, they never felt as solid or secure as Sigtryggr did. Her mind raced as his heavy arm locked around her waist, pulling her even closer. 

“Looks can be deceiving.”

He smelled of their campfire, the pine needles that surrounded them, and something else entirely him. It lacked the sweetness that pampered noble men bathed in; neither did it carry the bitter notes that men like him--who dealt in death--wore. Instead, he smelled of spice and what she could only assume the Christians would deem sin. 

Her body danced inside itself as she closed her eyes and breathed him in. She was losing control under his influence, and that was a particularly scary thing for a young woman in the arms of a man such as he. No one would raise a hand against him, the king to their new land. Sigtryggr could follow his own rules without consequence. Until her father found out, of course, but that would take weeks at least. 

It was strange, straddling this line between fearing what might happen and wishing what would. Before she let herself suffer it any longer, she needed to know who she was to him. “And what will it look like to your men, should they see us here now?”

“Like they should not sit so near you anymore,” he answered over her shoulder. There was amusement in his voice as he added, “Unless they would like a broken arm to keep them from their next battle.” 

She wanted to know what battle he was referring to, but thought better of asking. This was the closest she had gotten to learning where his true intentions lie. “Are you jealous?” 

“I am decisive.” 

Stiorra bit the inside of her cheek. While he may have avoided the question, he did not deny it, either. “And what have you decided?” She asked, because she could not stop herself. 

Sigtryggr said nothing at first, only burrowed his nose in the back of her head before nuzzling against her neck. Stiorra was torn between pressing him further and holding her tongue. In the end, she remained silent, so that he would not stop. His hands stayed chaste, even if his lips skimming the nape of her neck, suggested he would have preferred that they not.

“I have decided-” he began to say and then paused. 

She tensed in the silence. His hesitation was surely meant to drive her mad. 

“That I do not wish for another man to touch you,” he purred against the outer ridge of her ear. 

Stiorra had never known an ear to be so sensitive before, and yet when she felt his lips against it, she shivered. He held her tighter as if to better warm her--as if he did not know the effect he had on her. She wanted to blame it all on reflex--a mere tickle, except that after the shiver had left her, her flesh remained puckered. His words ran through her mind. Before this night, she might have attributed his possessiveness to his mind for business. With the way he invaded her space, however, pressing his face into her neck--surrounding himself with her scent, there was no mistaking his meaning. 

"You sound like a Saxon," she said, needing to lessen the intensity of it all. It had been their way for him to point out the Dane in her, and for her to liken him to the Saxons he was critical of. “So set on owning a woman, instead of enjoying her.”

In truth, both Saxon and Dane alike, were set on owning a woman--if it were the right woman. And she was, by way of her father. Had she been a girl of lesser importance, she could be freer with her affections. But because the great Uhtred Ragnarson of Bebbanburg--as she liked to call him--had something to give, her chastity was imperative and once married, her monogamy was expected. Stiorra was not ignorant to her lot in life or what her future held, though that did not stop her from imagining what life would be like should she not have such standing. Life on the road only further fed such fantasy. 

"No," Sigtryggr corrected. "I sound like a man." 

Her body was leading her down an unfamiliar road, and though it was exciting, it was also unsettling. Talking was easier--safer, so she teased, “So simple.”

He must have sensed her anxiety because he loosened his grip and rested his head back on the ground. If he was offended, he did not show it. Instead, another smile found his face as he replied, “Desire makes everything simple. It is when you do not know your own heart that things become complicated.”

“And you know it?” She asked, turning over to spy the outline of his nose in the darkness. 

He chuckled softly. “I always know my heart. That is why I crossed the sea, and why I am here now, keeping you warm.”

She almost asked if his heart wanted her in the same way that hers wanted him, but swallowed the words before they would come out, not wanting to sound childish. Instead, she cleared her throat and found the courage to ask, “If you know what you want, why not take it? Is that not what you came to this land to do?” 

“In time.” 

The answer was short and said so easily that it irritated Stiorra. While she labored over these new thoughts and feelings, Sigtryggr seemed entirely without struggle. “Why?” She asked, her annoyance showing. “Why wait?”

He sighed, as if having to explain the answer was somehow tiring. “Some things are better when they are given.”

Stiorra pressed her lips together. She was unsure if they were talking about the same things. Perhaps she had read him wrong and he desired something entirely different. His affection toward her could easily be explained by a desire to actually keep her warm. She would prove terrible leverage over her father if she got sick and died. 

“You make no sense,” she growled, upset with herself more than he for yet again allowing her mind to run wild. 

He faced the stars as he countered, “And you speak as though you have never humped before.”

Stiorra stilled. He was twisting and using her words against her! She wanted to lie and do the same to him--to tell him that she very much had humped before. Loads of times. And with Saxons, no less. That would surely piss him off.

But, she found she could not. 

Lying to him felt wrong and the heavy weight of guilt was harder to bear than the sting of embarrassment. No matter how upset she was. 

“That is what I thought,” he said, without a drop of pleasure at being right. There was no more mistaking his meaning now. Sigtryggr wanted her--as a woman--and he was being honorable. 

As if to make amends, he lifted his head again and turned to peck a kiss against her temple. “We will know each other in time. Sleep now, Stiorra.”

Unfortunately for him, that was the wrong move. This was no way to mend things between them. Other girls might not mind such dismissal, but she was different and if Sigtryggr really wanted her, then he had best learn that sooner rather than later. 

He lay still and quiet as if he was already sleeping. How could he be so daft? Perhaps because he was a man of experience, he took that for granted. 

Her first kiss from the man she had been pining over, had been one a father would give his daughter. It was lackluster and insulting. “What makes you so sure that I will want to give you anything later?” 

“You want to now, but you aren’t ready.” 

He had no right to know her head and her heart so easily. “I might change my mind, you know.” 

“You won’t.” 

She turned on her side and glared at him. It was dark, but she knew he had to have felt her eyes boring into him. “How can you be so sure?” 

He turned then. His pupils glittered in the moonlight--his only visible feature in the shadows. His arm came back around her, and his palm flattened over the small of her back. “Because it is only growing colder at night.”

Stiorra’s breath caught, her heart beating frantically against the confines of her chest. Just one more night like this one was unimaginable, let alone the promise of many more. And she knew without doubt that there would be many more because Sigtryggr was a man who struck when opportunity presented itself. 

  
  



End file.
